


Dear Mr. Richardson

by GravityCanFly



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alcoholism, Character Development, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 19:08:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1277587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GravityCanFly/pseuds/GravityCanFly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Douglas we know has been 'very sober' for a long time. More than thirteen years now, if the series occurs in real time.<br/>Eight years before Fitton, something changed...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Mr. Richardson

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Lets Write Cabin Pressure December '13 'Twelve Days of Giving'. I failed to complete this challenge but this little bit seems very important.
> 
> Content warning: Be aware that this teensy ficlet is very definitely about the effects of alcoholism (spoiler: they're not pleasant). If that's a little close to home for you approach with caution.

He looked at the envelope in his hands. He recognised it at once. His hands shook just slightly as he peeled it open.

It had not been a very good year. There had been the hospitalisation, the hand-wringing and the panicked phone calls. There had been the vomiting and the jaundice and the abdominal pain and the oedema and the exhaustion. There had been the blood tests and the scans and the blood tests and the scans and the blood tests… Days and days of being poked and prodded and looked at. Then there had been the DTs. Days became indistinguishable from nights as he lay staring at the ceiling where bugs and beetles swarmed. Nurses held his hands down so he couldn’t scratch his skin apart when he learnt what a panic attack felt like. He shook so badly that he couldn’t get his pills into his mouth.

There had been medication after medication to control the oedema, the nausea, the pain. There had been weekly blood tests to make sure none of the medications were going to kill him. There had been the AA meetings, the mentor phone calls, the divorce proceedings.

There had been the gradual decrease in symptoms. There was the odd day when he could eat without vomiting, then the days where he began to actually feel hungry. He stopped taking his anti-emetics and painkillers. The blood tests thanked him for it. After three months he started sleeping for more than an hour at a time. Soon after, he found he had enough energy to walk the short distance into town. Eventually his socks stopped leaving painful red rings around his swollen ankles. He pestered his GP to let him stop taking his diuretics. By now his arms were permanently bruised from all the blood draws but he looked and felt basically normal, from what he could recall that normal felt like.

He felt the slight ache below his ribs as he looked at the envelope, now little more than a memory of the pain it had once been. Normally gone or completely ignored, the ache reared its head as if it knew that it was the subject of the letter. He held the final truth in his hand - he would soon know whether his crisis came too late.

He pulled the letter from the envelope, unfolding it. He scanned it, his heart rate quickening as he came closer to the answer. His eyes picked out the phrases he had been praying to see:  
“significant decrease in inflammation”  
“insufficient scarring present to diagnose cirrhosis”  
“drastic improvement in liver function tests”  
“excellent prognosis”

He sank back in his chair, exhausted from apprehension and relief. He would never be able to drink again. He would still have monthly blood tests. He would still worry every time he took a paracetamol. His body would never be completely healthy again. But he was alive, and he had every intention of staying that way.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry.  
> I have a very detailed headcanon of what Douglas's life before MJN was like. It's not pleasant.  
> I'm never sure if I want to commit to this version of events - I'm not sure if I want to commit to Douglas dealing with the effects of Alcoholic Liver Disease throughout my fic. In some ways I really, really do, and in other ways I just want to give the poor guy a break.  
> I can be a little unkind to him. But you know what they say. To know what your characters are made of you have to break them open. Douglas pinata anyone?


End file.
